


Good This Time

by GretchenSinister



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Cosmic Balance, Dirty Talk, Forgiveness, M/M, Sensuality, and ultimately fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-23 15:10:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23246734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GretchenSinister/pseuds/GretchenSinister
Summary: HWAET’S UP? It’s blacksand time! Classic metaphysical counterparts ending up in bed together. Pitch is kind of a mental mess and Sandy tops. There’s some fun with dreamsand and Sandy even talks a little, much to Pitch’s delight.emeraldembers I wanted to post this on your birthday but first I failed on knowing when it was and then I was just late. But I hope you in particular enjoy this for its proximity to your birthday.
Relationships: Pitch Black/Sanderson Mansnoozie
Kudos: 24
Collections: Blacksand Short Fics





	Good This Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emeraldembers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/gifts).



> Originally posted on Tumblr on 7/1/2015.

Pitch tells himself he will be good, this time. After all, he has come here to beg forgiveness, yet again. Forgiveness for the terrible things he has done, for the terrible things he cannot seem to stop himself from doing, that seem to be part of his very nature. He is darkness, and he cannot be kind to light forever.

But he is also himself, and he wishes his clashes with light did not have to be so earnest, so deadly. But then both darkness and light would lose power, and he cannot be that cruel, either to light or to himself. After all these long years, though, he would still like to be forgiven for other cruelties. He still craves that, no matter what else he is.

Sandy sits on a throne for the occasion, and Pitch is glad that he too understands that this must be serious, that for both their sakes he ought not to wave to Pitch from an armchair, but raise his hand from a golden throne. This time, it looks like a golden wave breaking behind Sandy, and when he draws closer, he sees tiny whales and dolphins and even tinier golden fish slowly breaching through the shining metal.

As for Pitch, he has simply allowed his robes to grow tattered. 

When he reaches Sandy, he finds, as always, that the throne brings their faces to the same height. Pitch has protested against it before, when he came to bow for lesser offenses, and he would protest it now, but he knows Sandy prefers silence. Pitch can surely give him that after murdering him.

He bows his head, and Sandy reaches out and rests his hand on his hair for a moment. He closes his eyes. He can expect no more than this; Sandy’s forgiveness lies in the way he does not destroy him.

And then Sandy moves his hand to Pitch’s shoulder, and fills the tatters with gold. “No!” Pitch cries, shattering the silence. “That’s not why–I wasn’t asking for–”

Sandy shakes his head and puts his finger to his lips. He opens his arms and Pitch leans into his embrace, though he does not dare to return it yet. Very well. For though he did not wish Sandy to adorn him in gold, he knows well enough he cannot refuse the night of peaceful sleep Sandy offers with his benediction.

Only a night of peaceful sleep. That is what it must be, for Pitch wants to be good this time, he wants to be genuinely penitent, he will take what is offered and no more. No, he must take even less than that. 

His robes swing heavily with their cloth-of-gold repairs as he follows Sandy out of the throne room to a spacious bedroom. A small table stands near a fireplace shaped like a giant scallop shell, laden with food arranged on tall, fanciful trays. Pitch casts a pained look at Sandy. Why must he always provide such things? Why can’t he understand that Pitch’s life is luxury enough to offer him? He does not deserve these things, and he never manages to repay them in kind.

Pitch takes the seat farther from the fire, but realizes from Sandy’s small, pleased, smile, that this is meant to be another courtesy to him, the dimmest place in this shining room. After all, it would not be cold here, Pitch would not need the fire here, unless Sandy wished it. Pitch forgets his mission of penitence for a moment and scowls, but Sandy only smiles wider.

At least there is nothing of the absurd decadence here that sometimes accompanies food in Dreamland. Aside from being perfect, there’s nothing strange about the jewel-like sashimi, the neatly elegant rolls of other varieties, the steaming cups of jasmine tea poured from a pot shaped like a frightened puffer fish, the little pyramid of mochi ice cream in a dozen different pastel shades. Perhaps the oysters are somewhat out of place, but they make more sense than gooey s'mores and glowing flowers that taste like ice-cold water from the hose and raw chocolate chip cookie dough, which is what Sandy had served him once. 

But he had not been acting truly penitent, that time.

Today–or tonight, there is no way of knowing in Dreamland, where there sky shifts from beautiful sunset to starry night with no day in between–things remain much more civilized. From the shells on his plate, however, Pitch knows that he’s eaten more than his fair share of oysters, though the number on the bed of ice never decreases. “If you’re going to insist on forgiving me, you ought to be stingier,” he says quietly. “Surely you’d rather our truces were longer.”

Sandy tilts his head quizzically and offers him an ice cream. But we don’t get to see each other during the truces except to break them. You always insist on that term.

“Yes…well…it’s more a descriptive clause than anything else. I’m a dangerous being, after all.”

So am I, observes Sandy, as Pitch takes the ice cream.

The ice cream is close to spherical, and it and the mochi surrounding it are pale gold. It tastes of honey, and it’s so cold it makes Pitch’s teeth ache. 

Pitch sighs after finishing it. If there was a way for him to live so that he could always be offered sweetness…but then, wasn’t this it? He was the Nightmare King, counterpart to the Sandman, tormenting him and upsetting the balance and coming to beg for forgiveness and always getting it paired with a dozen other delights. And while it was of course a necessity of the universe that Sandy should not change him, surely it was absurd that he wasn’t trying at all. This last, he tells Sandy, who only shakes his head and offers wine and chess.

“Have you learned how to play since the last time I was here?”

Sandy smiles, the tip of his tongue showing between his teeth. He shakes his head.

“Neither have I,” Pitch says. “And to be as honest…I don’t feel up to coming up with a plot right now. I was exhausted when I came here, and now…you’ve treated me such that I feel undeservedly better, but…well, I’ve only moved from exhaustion to sleepiness.”

Sandy nods, letting the mischief leave his smile. Sleep, at least, he will take seriously.

“A good night’s sleep,” Pitch says. “I hope you know how much that means to me. I hope you know it’s more than I have any reason to expect, even after you give me all the symbols of forgiveness. I hope you know I don’t deserve it.”

Sandy rests his chin in his hand and looks at Pitch with an unreadable expression. He doesn’t offer Pitch any clues, any signs as to what he’s thinking. Perhaps it’s because this is a familiar discussion between them, one they’ve had many times before, and Sandy doesn’t have anything new to say on the subject. Perhaps he’s expecting this old, comfortable argument to end the way it always does. But it won’t. Not even when Sandy’s hand is so warm and soft against his as he leads him to the large bed. 

The air grows cooler now, just cool enough to make the thick down comforter extremely welcome, Pitch guesses. Sandy lets go of his hand to turn back the covers, revealing smooth blue-purple sheets under the gold blankets.

The pillows are gold, too, and, “did you mean for those to be stars?” Pitch can’t help but ask. “You certainly seem to have enough.”

Sandy laughs silently and hops onto the bed. He pats the space next to him, then frowns, and gestures at Pitch’s clothes.

Well, that’s justified, Pitch thinks. This won’t be very comfortable for Sandy if he insists on wearing sackcloth and cloth of gold to bed. With a thought, he changes into his simple robe and leggings, while the golden repairs flutter to the floor. Sandy scoots over, and since Pitch can’t suddenly deny what he’s asked for and he’s not in a position to require modifications to the situation, he lies down beside Sandy. Sandy tugs on his collar to move him further towards the center of the bed, and only once they’re both surrounded by fluffy golden pillows does Sandy pull up the covers.

Sandy’s face is very close when he turns to face Pitch. Very close indeed…but no. No, he will be good this time, he will not ask for what he definitely doesn’t deserve, for what Sandy shouldn’t want to give him. “Goodnight, Sandy,” he says, and he’s impressed by how level his voice sounds. “And thank you…for everything.”

Sandy smiles enigmatically, but his only action is to brush his fingertips across Pitch’s eyelids, dusting them with dreamsand. And because the only one watching him here is Sandy, he sighs and nestles into the mattress, pulling the covers up to his chin.

He wakes partially to a cool breeze across his shoulder, trying to decide if it’s worth it to move to cover up again. He’s so nice and warm everywhere else, anyway, especially–oh no. Especially his front. 

And why is that? Because Sandy is there, his back snug against Pitch’s chest, as if that’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. Pitch wakes up a great deal more now, though he’s careful not to move a muscle. He takes stock of the situation as best he can, though the dreamsand from earlier makes it hard to stay focused. Clearly he hasn’t gotten a full night of rest yet.

It must be Sandy’s fault that he woke up in the first place, because to keep breathing comfortably he would have had to pull the comforter down. Pitch tries to keep that complaint in his mind, but…

Sandy’s hair, losing its spikes and becoming more of a soft cloud, brushes against his neck and chest, feeling better than the sheets or the fabric of his robe. He can feel Sandy’s pajamas against his chest, too–why on earth did he have to wear his ordinary open robe? But even if he hadn’t, how would that have helped the rest of the way they were arranged? Sandy had pulled Pitch’s arm over him, and now his hand rested splayed on Sandy’s round little belly. Sandy’s own hand rested on top of his, and Pitch was extremely aware of the warmth just _radiating_ from Sandy, the softness of the small amount of his uncovered skin, the movement of his deep breathing.

This might have been bearable, had not the position been such as to exactly place Sandy’s plump bottom against Pitch’s groin, and the erection Pitch woke with. The _utterly inappropriate_ erection Pitch woke with. Of course, thinking about the situation even in those terms doesn’t help as all, as paying any attention to the parts of him and Sandy that are pressed together only makes his cock harder and his leggings distinctly more uncomfortable.

And no matter what may have happened almost every other time he’s been to Dreamland, he's _not_ here to ask the Sandman for sex. He’s _supposed_ to be here to repent and repine for what he’s done, to humbly accept Sandy’s generosity in his offer of a good night’s sleep. And in all honesty, Sandy should have been more distant, shouldn’t he? He’s the representative of the side of good, why couldn’t he have acted like he was doing Pitch a favor simply by not destroying him? Why did he have to join him in bed? Especially _this_ time! This wasn’t meant to be a vacation from the status quo, it was an important part of restoring balance! His desire for Sandy shouldn’t have any place in the matter.

So they had fucked before, in similar situations. But Pitch had always instigated it and he should never have done so in the first place. No matter how enthusiastic Sandy had acted. It wasn’t as though these meetings in Dreamland were meetings of…well…lovers. They couldn’t be lovers. It didn’t make sense for them to be, not with everything Pitch had done. 

And now his cock _and_ his heart ached. This was absolutely absurd. This is why he had to turn over a new leaf, to add some rationality to the relationship between him and Sandy, to stop taking everything he could get and maybe, _maybe_ show some indication that he really meant that he was resolving to not be awful again when he gained Sandy’s forgiveness (it was his nature to fail, but that wasn’t the point) and not just acting like it for the sake of company, food, and sex. So he was going to be good this time, he was going to turn over, and Sandy would be able to go about his work without any horrible dark bite marks on his creamy golden skin. Which Pitch was not going to think about.

To the end of rolling over, Pitch first tries to extricate his hand from where Sandy holds it against his belly. Sandy objects to this, holds his hand tighter—

–and _wiggles_.

Pitch would not care to define what sort of noise of surprise came from him at that moment. Still, surely he must have managed to keep quiet enough so as to not wake Sandy? Which leaves only his cock to do that. While he’s tried to block such thoughts from his mind, his body _distinctly_ remembers the lovely, lazy frotting he’s done with Sandy before. But that’s not what this is. This is Sandy accidentally wiggling in his sleep against Pitch’s overeager erection, holding him close without realizing. So. He could either wake Sandy up and explain as quickly as possible that he wasn’t seeking this sort of pleasure after everything else Sandy had done, risking the sort of confusion he probably wouldn’t be able to resist, or he could mentally steel himself, slide away from Sandy before he could respond, and go stand in the ocean breeze until he was fit to return to bed. The second option is no doubt the wisest. Yes, he will do that.

This course of action, however, requires that he leave the nice warm bed, which is probably the worst thought that’s allowed in Dreamland. So he hesitates. And in the moment of hesitation, Sandy does not merely wiggle, but deliberately grinds against him. This time, his traitorous vocal cords respond not only with surprise but with a distinct sound of approval. Sandy takes a big, deep breath and moves Pitch’s hand along and down the curve of his belly, and really, this is just impossible. He should have warned Sandy a long time ago how much he likes all of his soft curves, both for the probably-appropriate idea of comfort they bring, but also because they suit the Sandman very well. They make him sexy. 

Pitch has never been sure if Sandy wants to be sexy for him. The idea seems absurd, with how else they relate, despite…

Pitch’s train of thought grinds to a halt as the path Sandy has led his hand along ends in a break in his sand clothing, and as far as he can tell, he’s being encouraged to let his fingers play along warm, smooth skin and–oh yes–wildly curling hair. And once he’s there it would seem, well– _rude_ to not continue just a little further. And then the velvety-soft skin of Sandy’s cock is against his palm, quickly growing heavy, full, and delightfully hard with the little strokes he can’t help but give it. Sandy’s got an absolutely lovely cock, Pitch can’t just _neglect_ it, so nice and thick in his hand, just long enough to make Pitch gag when he convinced Sandy to fuck his face…just the thought of it…he must ask Sandy about removing his leggings, they’re really getting unbearable…

What is he _doing_? Again, this is not what he came here for! Doesn’t he have even the smallest bit of self control? And is Sandy even awake? 

That thought, finally, is enough to get Pitch to remove his hands from Sandy, and, if not move outside the covers, to at least move away from Sandy. 

He stares at the ceiling, hoping to calm himself down, but the gently swirling patterns help surprisingly little. He feels a tug on the blankets and turns to see Sandy sitting up with the blankets pulled around his shoulders. He’s quite awake, and looking at Pitch with a quizzical expression.

Pitch launches into an apology, explaining that he really only meant to sleep, he didn’t intend to take advantage of the situation, he’s really not that awful, and see, he’s stopped! He means to atone, he means to behave appropriately to the purpose of his visit to Dreamland. When he runs out of words, Sandy sighs heavily and moves closer to him.

What did you think I was doing when I guided your hand to my cock? He asks. Why did you think I started grinding against you as soon as I realized you were awake? Why did you think I fed you so many oysters and then a dessert shaped like myself?

“I…” Pitch gulped. “I thought you were humoring my base urges because you are far too generous. As for the oysters…we don’t even have human bodies, Sandy!”

Sandy tilts his head to the side. Well, we still haven’t really tested the idea. He frowns. But you need to explain this whole _base urges_ thing. Do you really think sex with me is a base thing?

The right answer is obviously _no_ , but Pitch flounders for several moments, realizing all too late that he had never clearly questioned why he thought the way he did. “I think…” What does he think? _Does_ he think that sex is base? If so, Sandy would be quite right to throw him out of Dreamland entirely, for knowing that Pitch had all too often made him submit to something he thought of in that way. He’d be insulting Sandy quite a bit if that was the case, as well as any other partners Sandy might have taken with more willingness over the years. The thought of Sandy with other partners depresses him, but he realizes at once that he would not consider these hypothetical couplings _base_. “I think that sex with _me_ is base.”

Sandy sighs, rolling his eyes dramatically. Really? That doesn’t solve the problem, since you’re still saying that I do base things as often as I can.

“As often as—no, wait, what I mean is that I think the idea of me, the Boogeyman, having the past I do, taking the opportunity to experience sexual pleasure with a partner who…” He looks away. “…who deserves much better, seems absurd and wrong.”

Sandy looks thoughtful now. He asks Pitch to speak more—are they not equals? Does this relate to the way he insists on acting so subservient when he comes to apologize?

“I…suppose,” Pitch says. “And—no, we’re not equals. I always lose to you. You’re stronger than me. I hate admitting it, but then again, even I…I would not want to live in a world where I was the victor, where I was the only force. I will always fight you, and I’ll give it my best, but I don’t really want you gone. I don’t know if I ever wanted that. Maybe for a minute or two, now and then.”

Sandy laughs and shakes his head. Sure, you don’t win over me, but I don’t win over you, either, he tells Pitch. We really are part of a balance. You lose to me because your big schemes always try to upset that balance. I win because I’m trying to restore it. We push and pull each other, but we’re not really…did you assume that one of us would destroy the other at some point?

“Our fights can alter the nature of humans’ mental reality, Sandy. Does it seem that strange that we, with our powers, who are so opposite, might well destroy each other?”

It seems strange to make that assumption, Sandy tells him. You really didn’t understand about balance this whole time? Then why did you come to apologize after your worst attacks? I always thought it was because you were starting to understand. He grins suddenly. All this time you were coming by to bow to me in a totally unnecessary ritual so that you could spend time with me—time you thought stolen, contrary to your very nature, while guiltily accepting food and a soft comfy bed with me in it? Pitch! I thought you enjoyed your weird rules!

“You never questioned them or contradicted me!”

Maybe I would have if you had stayed for more than one night any time! And you didn’t because of misplaced guilt?

“How was I supposed to know if I was allowed?”

Sandy raises his hands in exasperation. If you’re _in_ Dreamland, you’re _allowed_ to be in Dreamland. Don’t you remember the one time you managed to invade? You were here less than a second before the place kicked you out! And why would I have questioned you? In Dreamland you’re supposed to feel free to act how you want, and I didn’t want to control you. I don’t want to control you. We’d have a lot more horrible fights, and none of them would end like this, if that was true.

“But I still fought you Sandy, it’s in my nature to fight you, and how can you…”

How can I what?

“Er.”

Sandy watches him patiently.

“You could just pull it from my mind after sending me to sleep.”

Sandy shakes his head. That would be too easy. And rude. And this makes you far more uncomfortable.

“Why you little—fine. How can you love someone back who fights you? There. That’s what I was going to say. Are you happy now? The exact words. So, yes, in my mind, I’ve loved you for a really long time, even though it looks like I’ve been doing a horrible job of it.”

When he looks up, Sandy is smiling at him gently. I love you, too, he tells him. I’m good, but I’m not the kind of ‘good’ that does the kinds of things I do for you unless it’s out of love. Get it now?

“Ah—yes.”

Sandy nods in satisfaction. Good, I was getting worried that I’d have to use spoken words by the end of this.

Pitch blushes. “A far too mundane use for your voice,” he says, not meeting Sandy’s eyes, though he can still see Sandy’s grin.

Maybe you’ll hear it if we get back to what we were doing, Sandy suggests.

Pitch laughs softly. “This new honesty between us is going to take some getting used to.”

Sandy moves closer and takes his hand with an exaggeratedly earnest expression. Oh, but Pitch, don’t you know, I’m going to love you as I always have, and now that we’ve said we love each other, you can stop fighting so hard, I can take care of you, I can be all the good in you that you need…

Pitch gives Sandy a wry look. “Are you offering to fuck me?”

When Sandy grins this time, he sticks just the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He also runs the tip of his middle finger from Pitch’s wrist, across his palm, and up _his_ middle finger. He holds Pitch’s eyes with his own as he nods and Pitch is utterly unsurprised that his erection, which he had so recently distracted away, is quickly returning. Still, Pitch pretends to take some time to consider it, though Sandy must know that Pitch can’t really focus to consider anything now that Sandy has lifted Pitch’s hand to kiss each of his fingertips.

“Ah, well…it’s an offer I’d only accept from my opposing metaphysical number.”

Sandy laughs silently and pulls Pitch back to the center of the bed. Pitch gulps. He can’t forget how strong Sandy is and—oh!—when Sandy pulls him down for a kiss, he finds he doesn’t want to. He kisses Sandy hungrily, and Sandy returns the kisses with equal ferocity. It’s not good kissing, not really, Pitch thinks with some amusement. They probably look absurd, as if they are trying to devour each other; their tongues and teeth clash too much; these kisses are not of the sort that could seduce anyone, they are too desperate, too rough, too sloppy. What a relief, then, that they are not new lovers, but old enemies-rivals-friends-counterparts coming together again after a long separation.

The inside of Sandy’s mouth tastes sweet, and he’s never known if that’s natural or a long-standing pun, but he’s addicted. He could kiss Sandy for hours, he could kiss Sandy for days—he whines when Sandy pushes him away and down onto the bed. Take off your clothes, he tells Pitch, his eyes heavy-lidded, as his little hands pressed against Pitch’s bony shoulders. Now, he tells him, at the same time as he licks his kiss-swollen lips.

“I—I don’t have the power to just get rid of them, not here, not now,” Pitch admits. If he could, he’s pretty sure he would have been naked as soon as Sandy straddled his waist. Sandy is glorious on top of him, his clothes gone, plump, ripe, brightly golden, the freckles on his shoulders and legs like constellations, and of course, his thick, pretty cock standing between his thighs.

Sandy laughs again. I suppose I did volunteer to do everything myself. He blinks, and Pitch’s robe dissolves into dreamsand. It tingles, almost to the point of pain, as it flows away from Pitch’s skin, and he yelps.

Sandy shakes his head with a grin. You know it only feels that way because you think it should.

“Well—how do you think it should feel?” He stares up at Sandy challengingly, and Sandy only grins wider. He sits up, places his hands on the tops of his thighs, and rolls his shoulders exaggeratedly. _Oh, Pitch_ , he mouths, and in the instant where Pitch is distracted by the movement of his lips, fernlike fans of dreamsand bloom from his back like huge wings. Sandy meets Pitch’s astonished stare with a softened expression, and he holds his gaze as he leans down until he can hold Pitch’s face in his hands. He kisses him ever-so-lightly on the lips, tugging on his bottom lip just for an instant, and Pitch shivers in pleasure.

Pitch brings his hands up to Sandy’s sides, desperate to touch now that he knows he’s allowed to, and when the path of his hands leads him to Sandy’s lovely rump, he gives him a squeeze that earns him a smile against his cheek.

Sandy pulls back just for a moment to wink at Pitch, and though he does nothing else, Pitch can’t help but feel that he’s teasing him about never wanting Sandy to be taller so it’s easy to reach all of him. Which is absurd, but—then Sandy kisses Pitch’s forehead, and the words _this is how it should feel_ bloom directly into his brain like every sunflower opening at once.

“You’re not interested in this being humanlike at all,” Pitch murmurs.

 _Not totally_ Sandy admits. _Not now when we’ve finally figured some things out._ He moves so he can kiss Pitch’s mouth again, and in that kiss Pitch feels a command to touch his wings. He tries to clear his mind—easy enough, when Sandy’s sweet lips are on his own, when Sandy is opening his mouth for Pitch’s tongue—and slides his hands into the dreamsand wingbases. He groans, his whole body jerking in pleasure enough to make Sandy move his hands from his jaw to his shoulders. He breaks their kiss to take a shuddering breath, taking his hands from the dreamsand, and for a moment or two he wonders if he’s embarrassingly come untouched. A quick survey of his body assures him he hasn’t—he’s still achingly hard, and with a brief pause, he’ll have composed himself enough to still be used however Sandy wants him.

“What was that?” he asks, his voice rough.

Sandy doesn’t sign anything, only kisses him again, and if that’s his answer, Pitch allows that it’s quite satisfactory. Sandy’s wings arc down, then, surrounding Pitch with feathery tendrils. The tips brush against his shoulders, his arms, along his sides and legs, even along the bottoms of his feet. Pitch shivers and moans again, though Sandy doesn’t let him break the kiss this time.

When he finally releases Pitch’s lips, he brushes his own along Pitch’s jawline up to his ear. “This is how I want it to feel for you,” he says, in the softest whisper Pitch can still hear.

Pitch gasps and wraps his arms around Sandy to pull him closer, the dreamsand wings not nearly as overwhelming as the thought that Sandy has just audibly spoken to him. “Sandy, what can I do?” he asks. He runs his hands slowly over Sandy’s plump form, hoping that Sandy loves the feeling of his spindly fingers as he loves filling them with warm curves.

The dreamsand feels like laughter just a moment before Pitch feels Sandy laughing, warm laughter of joy, hotter laughter of desire. Sandy kisses Pitch’s cheek and he spreads his fernlike wings through the room, and when they curl back to him one tendril holds a little golden bottle. Sandy pushes himself up to take it, and once one hand securely holds it, he reaches down his other hand to rest against Pitch’s neck, where he can feel him breathe, feel him swallow, feel the pulse of his ersatz blood.

“Do you want me to think about you strangling me?” Pitch asks. Sandy doesn’t answer, only rubs his thumb against Pitch’s adam’s apple. Pitch bares his throat further. “Because that’s what I’m thinking about.” He gulps in a breath.

Sandy licks his lips briefly.

 _Think about how I could but I’m not_.

Pitch closes his eyes and takes a slower breath. “Sandy,” he says, “I need you very badly.” Sandy moves his hand from Pitch’s throat to his cheek to give it a comforting pat, and when he looks at Sandy he finds him giving him a smile with just too many teeth to convey solely understanding. He climbs off Pitch’s chest, his wings draping after him still. Where the tendrils touch, little curls of light spin across Pitch’s skin, and Sandy wonders if he realizes he’s letting that happen. Sandy can’t make him enjoy the touch of dreamsand, no matter how carefully crafted it is, no matter how much Pitch subconsciously wants to, unless Pitch can acknowledge to himself _consciously_ that dreamsand can, and should, feel good against his skin. But he won’t make Pitch say that out loud now. He doesn’t need the words that Pitch loves so much.

What he needs is touch.

Sandy moves down the bed and lightly touches the inside of one of Pitch’s knees. Gracefully, Pitch lifts his leg up and over Sandy’s head, and Sandy can’t help but stare. When he’s less wound up, he’s going to take the time to properly worship those legs. Now, though—well, he just needs to work on getting them slung over his shoulders. He pushes Pitch’s thighs apart with a slow caress and Pitch laughs breathlessly even as his flushed cock throbs.

Sandy presses a kiss to one raised knee through a grin. Delightful! Pitch had never shown he was ticklish before, and now he has, and right where Sandy wants to spend a great deal of time, too. Sandy makes a mental note to take full advantage of this later as he slicks up his fingers. Pitch might well think of it as some sort of torture, but Sandy felt sure he could make it worth it. The smile remains on his face as he slides his dry hand down to give a good squeeze to Pitch’s rear. Even though he sometimes seems to forget almost everything but his bones, he always makes sure to give himself the best ass he can, in Sandy’s opinion. He wonders if situations like this are part of the reason why.

He presses one slicked finger against Pitch’s hole and Pitch yelps. When Sandy does nothing more, Pitch raises his head—his hair already quite mussed—and looks at Sandy with a half-hearted glare that doesn’t regain him any dignity. “Are you waiting for me to say please, you glittery tease?”

Sandy nods.

“Oh,” Pitch says quietly. “Then…please. And please don’t make me beg anymore. I want you to do whatever you want to me, really, re-ally.” He stutters on the last word as Sandy presses two little fingers into him and begins to open him up.

Even before he enters him, Pitch is noisier than he’s ever been in Dreamland before. Whether it’s because it’s been a long time, or because they’ve finally talked about what they mean to each other, Sandy doesn’t know, but he can’t say he’s displeased. Even if the mermaids are going to have a whole host of embarrassing new nicknames for him when he finally leaves this bed.

When he finally pushes into him, Pitch moans out his thanks, tells Sandy, “Forgot how thick you were,” and Sandy has to pause for a moment to consider that words might have some merit after all.

From within his haze of arousal, Pitch notices at least this. “Oh, now that’s interesting,” he purrs, or would have purred if he wasn’t so wound up.

Sandy blows him a kiss. _You’ve already seduced me quite thoroughly. Relax._

“If you want me to feel good, you’ll let me talk about how good I feel,” Pitch says. “And if feels good to have your hot, thick, cock inside me.”

 _Language!_ Sandy teases. A deep, sunset-orange blush spreads across his face and neck and over his chest. He gives Pitch a shallow thrust and Pitch returns a small groan of approval.

“If you’re quite ready, I definitely am,” he says. He swings one knee onto Sandy’s shoulder. Sandy grins and lifts up his other knee. He wraps his arms underneath Pitch’s thighs, turns to kiss each knee, and with no further preamble, thrusts into Pitch with a hard, steady pace just that much too slow to allow Pitch to come untouched, if he remembers correctly, even with the added stimulation of dreamsand. Though it’s not as if he’s feeling patient tonight, oh no. How could he be, when, the less he thinks, the more his wings play up and down Pitch’s long, lean torso, brush against the sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones, tangle in his hair and curl and weave through his fingers. All his desires are here in this beautiful Nightmare King before him, around him and around him, and he’s not calling for patience either, he’s gasping and begging for more, he’s ready, he claims. He’s ready, he’s ready, he needs Sandy’s sweet soft hands.

So why isn’t he giving Pitch what he needs, what they _both_ need, yet? After all, Sandy’s pretty sure he can persuade Pitch to stay for a while, they won’t have to wait years before they’re in a bed again. But there is a reason, Sandy thinks, biting his lip as he smiles up at Pitch with heavy-lidded eyes. He digs his fingers into Pitch’s thighs. He should probably tell him. A tendril of dreamsand moves to rest across Pitch’s lips, silencing his babble, and from the dazed expression on his face Sandy knows he’s gotten a few grains into his mouth. He’ll wake up for this, though. “Pitch,” he says softly, “just let me enjoy how beautiful you are when I fuck you.”

A dark blush immediately appears on Pitch’s face, he twists his elegant gray hands into the sheets, and Sandy watches, pleased, as another little spurt of pre-come pulses from Pitch’s cock and trickles down his length. “I’m never going to forget you saying that,” he says breathlessly. “Never, never.” He locks his ankles behind Sandy’s lower back and pulls him close. “But I’m very, very close to begging you to just find out once and for all if I’m most beautiful when I come.” Pitch reaches up a shaking arm to brush a curl behind Sandy’s ear and manages a shadow of his wicked smile. “After all, you are.”

Sandy quickly turns his head to kiss Pitch’s wrist in approval. That was a good one, he tells him. Let me get just a bit closer. Pitch nods, and Sandy picks up his pace. Pitch is loud as ever, but much less articulate now, and that helps, oh, yes. He’s gotten Pitch to let go of words and all the barriers they come with. His cries, his moans, all the emotions behind them vibrate and flow through Sandy’s dreamsand wings. Oh and Pitch is warmblissfulfrustrated but he also feels loved, so loved and that is just what Sandy wanted him to feel, wanted him to know, that’s exactly it. He lets go of Pitch’s thighs and wraps his hands around his cock, stroking him firmly, teasing the head—he’d like to get closer, he’ll have to suck Pitch later—and soon enough Pitch is crying out Sandy’s name, begging him to come with him, come _in_ him.

Pitch clenches around Sandy and his cock pulses in his hands. Sandy raises his eyes to Pitch’s face as he strokes him through his orgasm, and, yes, he’s very beautiful now, his mouth open and eyes closed, his skin shining in the soft golden light with a faint sheen of superfluous sweat. Sandy’s hips stutter, and he leans forward, heedlessly pressing a hand against Pitch’s stomach and smearing the come there.

Pitch’s eyes open just a bit, and he smiles at Sandy. “ _Are_ you going to come in me now?” he asks.

He can only gaze at Sandy in absolute wonder when he answers in a long, drawn-out moan of a “yes”.

* * *

After they get cleaned up—a process that involves more frotting in a bathtub shaped like a giant seashell than Pitch had expected—they return to the bed, where Sandy determinedly curls up against Pitch’s chest, as innocent and demanding as a cat. Pitch pokes his shoulder and Sandy glares at him. “Don’t give me that look. First you pull that nonsense with oysters, and then overwhelm me with wings, and now you want to sleep after one round?”

Sandy yawns and pats Pitch’s cheek. He holds up two fingers.

“One and a half,” Pitch mutters.

Sandy reminds him he said that was okay.

“But I—” Pitch turns his face towards the ceiling. “Right now I don’t want you to go away at all. Not even to sleep.” He spreads out one hand across Sandy’s back. “I want you…knowing that we love each other in our strange way, being sure of that, it’s so much better and…I want you over and over again.”

Sandy tilts Pitch’s head down so they can look at each other. So do I, Sandy tells him. I just want to take naps in between. His lips curl up slowly. You could fuck me while I’m asleep, he suggests. Make sure I really know it when I wake up.

Pitch stares at him speechlessly for several moments until Sandy shrugs and moves to rest his head against Pitch’s chest again. “You shouldn’t invite me to do something like that!” Pitch says hoarsely.

Sandy rolls his eyes. Why? he asks. Because you would refuse to reciprocate?

“Ah—don’t say that—that is, I don’t know if I _could_. I think your touch would raise me from the dead, Sandy.”

Sandy traces a finger along Pitch’s neck, pressing into a hickey he left there earlier and smiling languidly when Pitch winces. You’re not immune to dreamsand. Do you just not want to?”

“Look,” Pitch says, catching Sandy’s hand. “If you want to sleep you’d better stop riling me up because I want you to hear everything I say when I’m inside you for the first time with me understanding that I don’t have to feel guilty about it. Also, how am I supposed to know if you want it while you’re asleep?”

Watch the dreamsand, of course! Sandy tells him. He turns his hand to fit more comfortably against Pitch’s. He blinks slowly and, with a gesture, draws the covers more fully over them. Anyway, if you think I’m allowing myself to be extra vulnerable—well, I’m always equally vulnerable when I sleep around you. And I’ve done that plenty of times already. So I’m going to nap. He kisses the top of Pitch’s sternum. What you do is your choice—my love.

Sandy falls asleep almost instantly and Pitch is at once rather proud, rather irritated, and more than a little tempted to take Sandy up on his offer. But they’re still new to understanding each other and so Pitch decides to think about it for a while, as he pets Sandy’s golden skin with considerably more liberty than he would have taken without Sandy’s suggestion. And he thinks, and he strokes, and he sucks a hickey onto Sandy’s neck. He cards his fingers through Sandy’s hair, now a cloud of floating curls rather than spikes, and when he does this, dreamsand scatters into the air and over the sheets.

Sandy was, of course, quite right when he said Pitch was not immune to dreamsand, and, with a deep breath, Pitch understands he’s going to get that good night’s rest that he had fooled himself into thinking was all he wanted. But he’s going to have Sandy in his arms when he wakes up, and he’ll know that he wants to be there. That’s more than he ever dreamed he would have, and so…well. He will be good this time, and fall asleep without struggle. He will be good this time, and he will be bad at other times, but he will never lose the being sleeping against him. He smiles. That’s a good thought to fall asleep to, and it will be just as good to wake up to—especially because he knows it’s Sandy’s good thought, too.

Whether it’s a good thought for anyone else—well, they’re not in this bed.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments from Tumblr:
> 
> randomfandom4091 reblogged this from gretchensinister
> 
> incurablenecromantic reblogged this from gretchensinister: #good golly gracious me oh my wow #nsfw #and very very hot nsfw it is! #i am very delighted by pitch being an absolute fucking mess 24/7 #and oh dear oh dear sandy #oh dear oh dear oh dear #oh gosh #oh jeez #this is incredibly sweet and passionate and also just extremely extremely sexy #i have a very ardent need for spooky douchebags being loved and pleasured by their sos #and those sos finding their spooky douchebags incredibly sexy and lovable #and boy does this deliver
> 
> gretchensinister reblogged this from emeraldembers and added:  
> ^U^ Eeeee, thank you! I’m going to rebagel this with your comments because they make me feel quite shiny and I must not lose them!#it's really no wonder one of our AUs involves cannibalism when Sandy gets compared to food so much
> 
> marypsue reblogged this from gretchensinister: #did you#did you just#anyway this is marvellously decadent and absolutely luxurious#and as always your language is lush and your focus on intimacy is the highlight of the piece#yes
> 
> emeraldembers reblogged this from gretchensinister and added:  
> *PTERODACTYL SCREECH*OH my god. Oh my GOD. Wing kink and dirty talk and sensuality (oh bliss so much sensuality) and SUGGESTED FUTURE CONSENTED-TO-SOMNOPHILIA HNNNGH
> 
> Oh man you had me biting my lip from the second Sandy wriggled back against him (AND I KNEW, I KNEW IT WAS DELIBERATE) and oh man. Just. Man.
> 
> These ancient alien godlike creatures with their communication issues and lack thereof when an effort is made and nnnnnn
> 
> Oh my darling this was worth every second of waiting for <3\. Thank you so much, it’s beautiful and sensual and sexy and delicious and mmmmmmm
> 
> (and I will now forever feel dirty when looking at mochi icecream but I am very much okay with that).


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